


Consecratio

by Rowan_Morrison



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Car Trouble, Eventual Smut, F/M, Snow, sneaky demonic priest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:07:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25547944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rowan_Morrison/pseuds/Rowan_Morrison
Summary: Father Antonio of the Emeritus branch of the satanic priesthood is assigned to consecrate a small offshoot church in a remote village. He is soon greeted by visitor who may or may not be able to help him in his task.
Relationships: Papa Emeritus III/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 13





	Consecratio

Winter 1990

She could feel the wind pushing her small car to the right as she struggled to keep it on the two lane road. The snow, heavier than even ten minutes previous, was blocking her vision. Just hold it steady, she said to herself as she continued her death grip on the steering wheel. She scooted around, adjusting in her seat as brought her face closer to the windshield in the hopes of being able to see the ground at the very least. The sun was beginning to dip in the sky and the light was at a stage where the glare of sheer grayness was making it near impossible for her to continue. She knew she should not have trusted her brother’s friend Ivan when he said he knew the area like the back of his hand. It was backwoods northern Sweden and she had no idea what road she was even on. She wanted to look down at her scribbled directions on the map, but she was terrified of wrecking the car if she stopped concentrating on driving for even a second. Hopelessly lost, she decided to take the next road she found and hoped her rudimentary Swedish would be good enough for her to find someone who could give her the directions to one of the main roads. 

Up ahead on the right was a small road with a sign that looked hand painted and said, “St. Peter’s Catholic Church” with an arrow pointing down the road. In Sweden? She thought it was rather strange, but perhaps there was someone at the church who could help her find her way. As she took her foot off the gas and started to depress the brake, she heard that sound, that awful sound, the sound that is a heavy clunk followed by another one or two clunks as the car tells you it is completely done with traveling forward at the moment. She tried to hold it steady and made it around the corner before the power steering gave out. 

“Even better,” she thought as she put the car in park on the side of the road that was already covered in snow. There were no car tracks to follow. The current snow was rather light and fluffy in consistency, but it was harder packed and thicker underneath. She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone, raising the antenna and flipping it open. Nothing. It just figures, she thought. Disgusted, she threw it back into her bag and began to prepare herself for a walk, hoping that wherever the church was on this road, she could get to it by dark. 

The small sedan creaked as she opened the door and stepped into a foot deep drift. Her hat, scarf and gloves were in place. She remembered that she stupidly decided not to wear her boots because, after all, she was just going to be in the car. Sigh. Keep moving, she said to herself and she shut and locked the door, heading down the road. The wind changed and the snow was now blowing so hard it was sideways and she had to put her head down to be able to see what little she could. She walked for about 20 minutes and spotted something ahead, something yellow flickering in the trees. It must be a light in the church, she thought as she pressed forward.

Five minutes later, she had arrived at the rusted, old wrought iron gate set into a five foot high stone wall that surrounded the church that appeared to be made of similar rock. Another odd thing, she thought. The gate was extremely hard to move and she continued to push until the snow gave way underneath and allowed her through to the path that was barely visible.

As she started up the walk, she heard the scrape of a shovel. 

He decided that the snow was thick enough that perhaps he should go shovel the walkway. He didn’t want her to give up on getting through the gate, so he felt he better move things along by removing the snow from the path. He had on his long black cassock and overcoat. He grabbed his gloves and the shovel and headed out the heavy door.

She saw him as she rounded the curve of the path. He was pushing the shovel over the stoop and humming to himself. His black hair flopped in his face as he continued his work. He looked up and saw her approaching. Oh, dear Satan, she was perfect. Thank you, Dark Lord, he thought to himself. 

“Halla,” he greeted her.

“Uh...Halla...Do you speak any English?” she asked. 

“Oh yes,” he replied. He was surprised. She was not Swedish or even European. This was even more of an unexpected pleasure as he had not seen an American girl since college two years ago. His brain automatically switched to her language. 

“My English is a bit rusty,” he lied. She was surprised at his accent. It certainly wasn’t Swedish. She couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps Italian? And his eyes didn’t match. She wondered if he could see well. 

“My car broke down back at the turnoff to this road. Can you help me?”

The stress in her voice was intoxicating. He could feel it and smell it and oh, damn near taste that delicious nervousness and anticipation. He was very glad he was wearing his coat and his cassock, it was that bad right now. He smiled to himself. 

“I am certain something can be arranged for you,” he smiled broadly, having been told that works very well to put people at ease. 

“Thank you so much,” she exhaled and he could tell she was becoming more comfortable with him. She was the stereotype he had hoped for – young, with innocent eyes and a gentle nature. Just what he needed for what he had to do. 

“Forgive my rudeness,” he leaned the shovel against the wall and turned, making a blessing sign the best he remembered. “My name is Father Antonio.”

“I’m Sister Mary Ah….I’m Amelia Thomas,” she nodded and put her hands together as she received his blessing.

He gave her a questioning look and she continued. 

“Until about a month ago, Father, I was a nun,” she bowed her head.

He thought he might cum in his pants.


End file.
